The Other Side of Goodbye
by quitesirius
Summary: “I don’t want to be an angel,” Fred says, barely above a whisper as he tries desperately to touch his mother’s face and wipe away her tears. Fred must come to terms with his own death before he can say goodbye.
1. It Wasn't My Time

The Other Side of Goodbye

**The Other Side of Goodbye**

"—eight!"

A sudden, dizzying sensation that reminded him of Apparition or travel by Floo Powder came over Fred, and he found himself standing amidst what looked like clouds. White curls of mist rose to just above his knees, swirling in a breeze he could not feel. When the initial after-effects of whatever type of travel he had just endured wore off, he gave his head one quick shake to steady himself.

He cast his eyes from side to side, seized by fear. The last thing he knew, he had been joking with Percy in between dueling with a Death Eater in Hogwarts.

This certainly wasn't Hogwarts.

For starters, where were Percy, Harry, and Ron?

"What the…?"

Suspecting some sort of disillusionment charm was at work, he hastily crouched down in the mist. The Death Eater he was fighting had clearly cast this to throw off Fred, and he would not allow the bastard to watch him like a goldfish. He peered through the haze, waiting for some indication as to where his attacker, or his friends, might be.

"You have no reason to hide," said a voice somewhere in the distance. "It is over now."

Fred crouched lower and considered lying flat on the ground, but thought better of it in case of an attack. He would have a hard time casting spells lying down.

And now that he was thinking about it, there was no ground. Whatever it was that his fingers came in contact with was neither solid or mist. He dismissed the temporary confusion from his mind and swallowed as he looked up.

A man emerged from the mist, looking very wise and solemn. He was adorned in bright white clothing and seemed to be illuminated from within. His glow was soft and pure, unlike any light Fred had ever seen. Something about this man both frightened and comforted him.

"Please rise, Frederick," the man said, making a motion to do just that with his hand. "The journey will be much harder if you choose to go crouching."

Fred knit his brows. This was some sort of trick.

"I'm not going anywhere with you," he shot back, instantly on his feet. "Expelliarmus!"

Nothing.

Gazing down at his hand, Fred found that his wand was no longer wrapped in his fingers. He did not see it anywhere near his feet, and his stomach tightened sickeningly. He looked back at the man in white and attempted to back away. He would not run unless he had to—but he refused to die being cornered like this.

"Your wand is not here," the man said, taking several steps closer.

"Right, well, I sort of figured that one out," Fred retorted. "What did you do with it? Break it?"

"I haven't touched it. It is with your body."

Fred knew that his wand was not in his pants pocket, and that was the best he could figure from the strange reply he had received. "I'm not up for riddles right now. If you don't give it back, I'll just have to pummel you with my fists until you do."

The man raised a hand as if to tell Fred to stop for a second. His brows shifted into a look of one trying to understand something. "You do not know."

Fred was not sure how to reply. Was that a question or a statement? Didn't know what? What the hell was going on? Where was everybody? Who was this guy? Where was his wand?

"You are dead, Frederick Weasley."

Every thought rushing through Fred's mind came to a screeching halt. Dead? He stared at the man. "Beg your pardon?"

"You are de—"

"Dead? No, not seeing as I'm standing right here!" Fred could not help it, the words were tumbling out without connecting to his brain first. Hearing the note of hysteria in his voice, he took a moment to calm himself. "This is a spell. You're a Death Eater trying to kill me, and I'm not going to fall for this whole 'angel' bit. Give me my wand back before I beat you to a pulp and take it back!"

The words seemed to sting the man a bit and he recoiled. He shook his head and cast his eyes upward. "Why do they always make this so hard?"

Fred glanced upward as he slowly moved backward. He came in contact with something that felt just like the ground—or whatever it was— and looked to see what it was. There was nothing there. An invisible wall? What sort of spell was this? He looked back at the man, trying to keep his fears submerged.

"Talking to yourself is never good," he said.

The solemnity in the man's voice hit Fred like a fist. "We have something of great importance to discuss, Frederick."

"My name is Fred—only mum calls me 'Frederick' when I've done something to her garden," he said defensively. "And I'm not discussing anything with you. Take down this wall!"

"I cannot, Frederick."

Fred allowed his Weasley Temper to flare up, reddening his face and ears as he bellowed, "MY NAME IS FRED!"

The man made a calming motion with his hands and came toward Fred. Fred, having nowhere to go, resigned himself to a standoff. If this man was going to kill him, he would not go without a fight. The man stopped just short of Fred's reach, and Fred noticed his eyes were filled with sorrow. He did his best not to lower his guard, but something in the man's expression was temporarily taking the fight out of Fred.

"I am sorry, Frederick, but I am only permitted to use your whole first name. It cuts back on the confusion once you—well, I suppose I have some explaining to do before I get to that part." He made to put his hand on Fred's shoulder, but Fred hit his hand away.

"What the hell is going on?" Fred demanded, back on the offensive. He raised his fists again, ready to defend himself in whatever way he had to. "I'm sick of this little game—"

"It is no game, Frederick. I was under the impression that you had already been informed of your death. I cannot solve this puzzle for you if you do not let me put my hand on your shoulder."

"So you can kill me? I don't think so!"

Fred swung out with his right fist. He had fought with his older brothers several times before, and he had been taught well. He should have made contact square with his opponent's nose, successfully breaking it, but instead he made none. The momentum of his punch not connecting threw him forward slightly, and he was shocked to find that not only had his arm passed through the man, but so had part of his torso.

He instantly retracted, eyes wide with fear and confusion. Fear constricted his chest further when he realized that despite his best intentions, he was not breathing.

The man bowed his head and reached forward, grabbing hold of Fred's shoulder. A strange calm washed over Fred, and the same strange sensation that had brought him to this place filled him.

_The Great Hall is filled with people. Most are celebrating, but others are walking down the long line of bodies. It is staggering to see how many there are and who is among them. Colin Creevey, so innocent… Remus Lupin and Nymphadora Tonks lie side-by-side, looking as though they are merely sleeping. George lies there, surrounded by their family, their mother sobbing into his chest. _

_Fred instinctively moves to run to his twin, to push his mother aside and see for himself what has happened to his other half. He finds that his hand passes through his mum and that nobody moves to get out of his way._

"_Fred," a voice whispers, deadly solemn and racked with fear._

_Ron and Percy are instantly out of the way, and there is Fred. No, wait, it's George—his ear is missing. He says nothing more and advances toward the body. He falls to his knees, eyes wide and watery. He reaches out timidly and his fingers brush against Fred's hairline. _

_Fred staggers backward and tries to catch breath he no longer has. He can feel George's fingers for the briefest of moments and thinks he's going to be sick._

_George pulls away, and Fred knows it is because the chill of death is setting into his body. Again Fred moves forward, this time to look down at his own face. His father has closed his eyes for him, because he could not bear Fred's joyless gaze. A small smirk is upon Fred's lips and he remembers now._

_Percy… he had been joking with Percy…_

_Fred looks at his older brother, who is beside himself with grief. He thinks it is his fault, and Fred wants to tell him otherwise. He goes to put his hand on Percy's shoulder, to let him know he is not gone, but his hand falls through him. He brings his hand back, and lifts it up to look at it. _

_He cannot remember a single time in his life, not even when he and George had concocted various potions with equally various resulting disasters, when he was translucent._

"_You cannot make physical contact. It is a burden of angels," the angel's voice tells him from inside his head._

_Fred shakes his head, banishing the voice. His mother's sobs are too much to take. He kneels beside her and tries to make himself heard._

"_Mum, no, I'm still here… Don't cry…" Fred reaches for her, but she cannot feel his touch either. He wants so badly to cry, but he can't. "Mum… mum… please don't cry…"_

"_Angels cannot cry," the man says beside him, appearing from nowhere. "It is another burden of the heavenly. You are among us now."_

"_I don't want to be an angel," Fred says, barely above a whisper as he tries desperately to touch his mother's face and wipe away her tears. "Mum, please, no…"_

"_I am sorry, Frederick. It was your time."_

_Molly continues to sob and Arthur strokes her soothingly as he silently cries for his lost son. Percy is not sobbing; he is absolutely still and silent, staring at Fred with water dripping from his eyes. Ron and Ginny are clinging to each other for dear life, both crying uncontrollably. George is kneeling by Fred, staring down into the face of his dead twin and showing so much emotion that he almost appears to be showing none at all._

_The angel moves to stand beside Fred. "Please understand that it was your time, Frederick."_

_Fred stands up, Weasley Fury boiling within him, and looks the angel square in the face._

"_NO IT BLOODY WELL WASN'T!!" His voice does not echo off the walls of the Great Hall and his death takes a whole new meaning. _

_George looks up suddenly, as if he has heard something. _

_Fred hurries over to his twin, passing right through Ron and Ginny. "George! George, you can hear me, can't you??"_

_George is looking right through him, searching for the source of some sound. He lets out a shuddering breath and turns his eyes back toward Fred's body. _

"_He cannot hear you," the angel says._

"_Yes he can!!" He argues forcefully. Fred feels like his eyes are filling with tears, but his vision is perfectly clear. "He always hears me," he whispers, voice cracked and reedy. "Before I even say anything… He always… he always knows where I am… he always hears…"_

_The angel has put his hand on Fred's shoulder again, and this time Fred is not filled with the near-calm of the touch that brought him to the Great Hall. "Get away from me!!" He whirls on the angel and shoves him whole-heartedly. This time Fred makes contact, sending the angel toppling to the cold stone floor._

"_Your pain was once my own," he says, not bothering to stop Fred's rage or to get up._

"_What, did you have to watch this, too?? Your parents, your siblings… your TWIN crying over your body?" He waits for no reply and turns back to George. "PLEASE, George, you have to hear me!!"_

_George does not look up. His tears are sliding silently down his cheeks, raining down onto Fred's face. Even though Fred is smirking, it looks as though he is crying too. George reaches down and wipes away the tears as his own come stronger. _

"_No," he whispers shakily, "You can't cry too."_

_Fred wants so badly to sob, to cry, to find some way to let this sadness out of himself. He reaches out for George and places his hand on his shoulder. He tries so hard not let it pass through, and it doesn't. He squeezes, and George looks up again._

"_Fred?"_

_His voice is full of hope this time, and confusion. His gaze moves rapidly, his eyes narrow, searching for something beyond his vision._

_Fred reaches out again, but this time the angel stops him. "You must let him go, Frederick—"_

"_BUT HE FELT ME! George! GEORGE! I'm here! I'm right here!" He pushes the angel aside and tries to grasp his twin by the elbows. His fingers pass through George, and he tries desperately to make himself solid enough to take hold._

_He is fading, despite an urge so strong he can barely contain it, and he throws his arms around George. "NO! NO, DON'T TAKE HIM AWAY FROM ME! NO!"_

"_Fred?"_

Fred collapsed to his knees and searched around him for George. Nothing but curls of white mist surrounded him now, and the angel stood a few feet away, looking down at him solemnly.

"You!" Fred was on his feet in an instant and grabbed the front of the angel's robes. "TAKE ME BACK!"

"I cannot. You have had your moment of farewell," the angel replied gently. "George knows you were there."

"It wasn't my time," he said, beating his fists into the angel's chest as he tried to pull Fred into a comforting hug. "It wasn't my time!"

"But it was, Frederick. You died a noble death, trying to save the innocent. You succeeded, Frederick, and have earned your wings many times over."

Fred pushed out of the angel's grasp and fixed him with the most hateful gaze he had ever given. "I. DON'T. WANT. WINGS. I WANT MY FAMILY! I WANT GEORGE!"

"Those are two things I cannot give you."

"Why not?? If you're so mighty, so heavenly, why can't you just… just…" His fury ebbed and the full weight of his grief crushed the embers of his anger. "Put me back in my body," he finished quietly.

"I am not powerful enough for such things. Only one is, and it was She who saw fit to take you—"

"But…" Fred interrupted weakly, "I wasn't even twenty years old yet. I… I didn't get married, or have kids, or… or build a house next door to George. I… I won't be able to go to Ron's bachelor party, or Ginny's graduation… I didn't get to make a toast at mum and dad's fiftieth anniversary—"

"I understand your sorrow," the angel replied softly.

Fred let out a hollow, mirthless laugh. "Do you?"

"I had to die to get these wings. I also did not take my own death is stride. I left behind a wife and three children." A smile came to his face. "But they are with me now."

Fred looked up, shaking his head. "But my family is not with me. They're down there," he said, gazing down at the clouds around his feet, "crying over me. Because I was so stupid… Now they're all so… so sad… and I can't make them happy anymore. I can't help them forget their pain. I can't make them laugh."

"That is why George was left behind, Frederick. It will take him time, but he will learn to laugh again. When he does, it will bring your family and friends great joy."

"Why do they have to feel any sorrow at all? Couldn't you have just left me there, too?" He was pleading now. "Can't you just… find some way to put me back? Then they wouldn't have to wait for happiness. I've got some firework tabs in my pocket. I'm sure that'd liven up the celebration, and, and make everybody happy again." His eyes were wide as he looked at the angel. His next word was so carefully chosen, said in such a tone that he had never used before, that it felt as though Fred expelled part of his being when he said it. "Please?"

The angel shook his head. "I am sorry, Frederick."

If Fred had felt like crying before, he felt like dying now. But then, he thought, his death had not hurt. He had died laughing, just as he always told George he hoped he would. He felt like dying a painful, slow death, like that of a person who dies of heartbreak.

He chuckled a little.

"I expected angels couldn't feel pain."

The angel sighed and nodded slightly. "It is the last of your earthly discomforts to go. Sadly, it is the things we desire to do most that are taken immediately. That is why you could not touch or comfort your mother."

Fred sat down on the cloud and tried to peer through it. He could barely make out Hogwarts. "Then how come I could shove you? How come I could touch George? How come he could hear me?"

"It is best explained as thus," the angel said, standing beside him. "If you feel an emotion strongly enough, you can manifest into just enough of a solid object to be felt. Your voice can be heard for the briefest of moments. Being able to touch me is no great feat, Frederick. In the short timespan you have been among the heavenly, you have gained strength. When you first tried to hit me, you were still recovering from being parted with your body. Touching George, however… Your grief, your sorrow… your desire to touch your twin was strong enough that you were able."

"But… I wanted to touch mum, and Percy—"

"Not as badly as you wanted to make contact with George," the angel intercepted. "It is rare for any of us to be able to make contact with more than one person. Usually we can only touch those we miss the most."

"Oh."

"There is another part to this explanation—something far more important." The angel sat beside him and waved his hand over the cloud. If shifted slightly and a vision of Fred and George as young children came into view. "You and George shared a bond that few can understand. To have an identical twin is one thing, but to be connected as you two were is only conceivable by those who were as you."

Fred, lost in the image before him, raised a brow. "That was very confusing."

"What I mean to say is that you were both wizards. Muggle identical twins do share a close bond, but those who are wizards are literally bonded. Your mother and father share a love that is true, and the magic between them is strong. But even their bond is not as strong as the one you still have with George. You see, because of all the magic that surrounded your mother and father, which flowed through their veins, a strange thing happened when you were conceived. Assuming you know about the birds and the bees, you will know that you and George were once literally a single entity." He paused here as the vision of Fred and George changed to just before they went to Hogwarts for the first time. Fred was still watching it. "When your physical bodies became two, your single soul also split. Your jokes that you shared a soul were actually very true." 

"They were?"

"Indeed. That is why you felt each other's happiness and pain so well. It is why you could share each other's thoughts, how you could finish each other's sentences. You were of one soul, and one mind. When your soul divided, it took certain traits into each of you, some split down the middle while others were singular. You were identical freckle for freckle, which is something no other twins in the world can currently claim. There is usually at least one physical difference between them, such as a birthmark."

"George lost an ear," Fred remarked off-handedly. "Saint-like," he said, a corner of his mouth turning up, "Ironic, as I'm the one up here."

"It is because you two share a soul that George could hear and feel you; it was much more than mere emotions you felt. It was your splintered soul making contact with its other half. It was fleeting, yes, as now your soul resides in two different worlds and cannot enable the type of communication you are used to. George will be able to communicate with you from time to time, I suppose, but it is nothing to cling to."

"Right. I can't cling to anything now, even if I want to."

The angel nodded. "The pain will subside quickly, Frederick, once you enter the Gates. I promise you that."

Fred tore his eyes away from the image of he and George wiping soot off their faces from an explosion in their room long enough to scoff. "I don't think this will ever go away, and I'm not going to Heaven."

The angel raised a brow as Fred looked back at the image. "You are not?"

"No… I have to wait for George. He'll come. Soon. He said he'd always follow me no matter where I went." He let out a single laugh. "Said that after I tried to explain the rules of Hide and Seek to him. Had to find his own hiding place. Know what he said?"

"But I'm following you wherever you go Fred! I don't feel right when we're apart," George said from the whisp of cloud that looked like him at seven years old.

Fred wanted to cry again, but he could not force tears to his eyes. "He was right, you know. I can only think of a handful of times we were ever apart. Sucked majorly, I can say. I couldn't go to the common room without him, let alone Heaven."

The angel placed his hand on Fred's shoulder again. "He will join you someday."

"But when?"

The angel did not say when George would come, but he did say, "There is somebody else I think you should speak with. Come, follow me."

Fred looked him straight in the eyes. "I'm not going anywhere without George."

"Then your conversation must take place here. I will go now, and he shall come in my stead. He will explain… much better than I."


	2. Going Home

The Other Side of Goodbye

A/N: Took me a bit longer than expected (had a midterm!), but here's the second chapter. There's more to come in this one _and_ in "The Trouble With Being A Twin". I still cry when I think about Fred's death and George's sorrow, but writing this and realizing that he'll still live on in fanfiction has helped me deal. Thank you for all of your wonderful reviews for both stories. They're inspiring.

I'm also working on a companion piece to this one, from George's point of view. That one will be much darker.

Remember, reviews make me write.

**The Other Side of Goodbye**

**Chapter Two: Going Home**

"_I never thought I'd die alone,_

"_I laughed the loudest; who'd have known?"_

_--"Adam's Song" Blink 182_

Fred felt an unexpected wave of discomfort flow over him when the angel faded into the mist. A part of him wanted to get up and follow—he had never been good at being alone, especially in a strange place. An even larger part of him, however, wanted to stay and watch the whisp of cloud that was pretending to be he and George.

He would be true to his word. He would not enter the Gates without George, and if that meant he had to sit here, all alone for half of eternity, he would do it.

"Well, now, if it isn't Fred Weasley," came a bodiless voice.

Fred looked up, curious to see who the newcomer was. He did not recognize the voice, and he saw no one as he narrowed his eyes, searching. The last angel had told him that it would be somebody who could explain the situation, and he had supposed it would be somebody he had known in life. He half-expected a distant relative, or perhaps Uncle Fabian or Uncle Gideon.

He did not, however, expect to see James Potter materialize, standing against a cloud pillar, arms crossed over his chest and looking back at him as though they hadn't seen each other in years.

Fred could not think of a reply to Mr. Potter, and sat there, dumbfounded amongst the clouds.

James pushed off of the pillar with his shoulder and made to sit beside Fred. "I suppose seeing me is a bit odd."

"A bit," Fred agreed. "Not—not that I don't appreciate you coming here. It's just that… well, I don't know you and I didn't expect to see you here."

"Well, there is only one Heaven, Fred." James' eyes sparkled with mischief, which did not surprise Fred in the least. "Or, there's only one place such as the one we're in. The Go Between, I think it's called."

For his entire Hogwarts career, Fred had heard quite a deal about how he and George were the worst trouble-makers since James Potter and Sirius Black. The twins had always had a sneaking suspicion that James and Sirius had been involved with the Map, judging from all the talk of how smart and mischievous they had been. The Map version of Prongs had also sounded a bit like Harry when he was in a playful mood, Fred had thought just before they had handed it over to the young Potter.

Fred had thought about having a conversation with James, or rather, Prongs, many times, to ask how he had come up with the idea for the Map, and so many other hilarious things. But now that he was sitting there, dead, face-to-face with an equally dead man who happened to be the father of his youngest brother's best friend, he was at a loss for words.

"Er," he replied intelligently.

"Well said," James answered. He pulled his knees closer to his chest and pushed his glasses back up his nose, thinking out his next words carefully. "Bernard asked me to come here because I know you. I mean," he said at Fred's confused expression, "that I know who you are. I spend a good deal of my time watching Harry, and I've come to know you through him. You were a great friend to him, Fred, and I thank you for being a brother he never got a chance to have."

Fred could do nothing but nod.

"The thing is, Fred, that I enjoyed watching you and George. Reminded me a bit of Sirius and I back in our glory days. And… now you remind me of us even more." He looked saddened by this, and turned his gaze to his kneecaps. "When I died, I took it very hard. I had Lily with me, of course, but I was willing to forsake Heaven, to leave her here, if only I could go back and be with Harry, Sirius, and Remus. I was willing to give up my wings for them, just as you are for George."

Fred wished he could think of something to say. Anything at all. He was somewhere between uncomfortable and understanding of James' plight, but in all honesty he could not understand why Bernard the Angel had sent James Potter. He would have understood one of his murdered uncles, or perhaps even a distant ancestor, or a grandparent… not the angel of a man he had only seen in pictures in Harry's room, and heard about in fond memories of those who had been to Hogwarts before him.

James blinked what could best be described as watery eyes, though no tears fell, and looked at the redhead once more. "That is why Bernard sent me. Even though we are a generation apart and have never met… you and I share a great deal in common, Fred."

"We… we do?"

"We were both pranksters taken before our time. We left our loved ones behind. You left your family and your twin… I left my friends and my son."

"What about… what about the rest of your family? I mean, Harry's only got those awful—oh." He stopped suddenly when he realized that James' family must have met the same fate as he did.

James nodded slowly. "They were murdered not long before I was. They were killed by Death Eaters who wanted to know where Lily and I were." He swallowed.

Fred looked down. "I'm sorry."

James shrugged, looking a bit brighter. "Don't be. We're all together now, just waiting for Harry. I expect he'll be a while coming."

"Seems like, doesn't it?"

"That's my boy," James said, smiling warmly. "But enough about that. The matter at hand is your death, Fred, not mine. I was told to come here because I can help you in ways that others can't. Gideon and Fabian were both eager to come, but they wouldn't be much help since they, well, came together. They wouldn't understand what it was like to be… torn, the way you were. I can barely fathom it myself, but I do have some experience. I was torn from Harry and Sirius."

Fred bit back the urge to make a snide remark along the lines of that not being the same thing. Even a father stolen from his son could not comprehend one twin taken from another! He resisted, not wanting to insult the only angel who might be willing to help him find a way to return to his family.

"Now," said James, hopping to his feet, "We've got places to be."

"We do?"

James nodded, his messy hair toppling into his eyes. He blew it away anxiously and motioned for Fred to get up. Fred, somewhat reluctantly, got to his feet. When James reached for him, however, he took a quick step back.

"This isn't some sort of trick, is it?" he asked suspiciously.

James knit his brows together. "Pardon?"

"You're not going… to take me to Heaven, are you? Because I'm not going without—" Fred was abruptly cut off by the Marauder.

"No, no." He looked saddened again. "I'm taking you… I'm taking you home."

Why James looked so sad, Fred did not stop to think about. The mere mention of home brought a swell of emotions to his chest and his eyes burned with happy tears that could not fall. Perhaps Mr. Potter was going to help him find his way back. He stepped forward again and held up his arm for James to take a hold of.

The strange sensation that had brought him to the place that he best surmised to be the world between Earth and Heaven gripped him again, and Fred was happily falling through the clouds, Mr. Potter at his side.

When Fred fell face down in the thick, lush grass in the backyard of the Burrow, he could not remember a time when he had been happier. He never thought he would be so joyous to see the garden, where he had spent many horrible hours de-gnoming and weeding without magic when he and George had upset mum. He took only a split second to take it all in: the chickens, the Burrow's exterior, the shabby garden, and the trees that blocked their home from Muggle view.

After that split second, he sprinted across the lawn, faster than he had ever ran before. He wanted more than anything to rip open the back door, burst into the kitchen, and find his family at the table. He wanted to hug them all and dry their tears, to tell them he was home and not going anywhere ever again, even if they wanted him to. He wanted to apologize for the scare, and hug George until his ribcage cracked.

"Wait, Fred!"

Fred did not hear James call after him, and kept running until he was at the back door. He reached for the doorknob, but he could not turn it. Sighing in frustration, he walked through the door. It was a temporary glitch, he decided, and flicked the annoyance away like a doxy.

When Fred entered the kitchen, however, he was not met by the happy sight of his family tearing into breakfast. His mum was not putting hot plates on the table, and Ron was not scooping gigantic spoonfuls of potatoes from a bowl. Ginny was not nibbling at her toast with strawberry jam, and George was not fighting with Arthur for the tea. Errol was not stumbling across the table, knocking over goblets and getting feathers in everything.

In fact, there was nobody there, and it was so quiet that one would never have thought it was the home of the Weasleys.

This did not deter Fred in the least, however, and by the time James passed through the back door, Fred was already halfway up the stairs to his old bedroom. "Fred! FRED! Blast!" he ran after Fred, calling after him the entire time.

Fred passed through his bedroom door after several attempts to open it, and found that it was exactly how he remembered it: boxes were stacked everywhere, filled with joke shop supplies, a vase of flowers mum had put by the window, his bed still messy from his last stay in it. He whirled his vision around the room, searching for George. He was not there.

He darted through the wall, passing through Percy, Ginny, and Ron's rooms. Nobody. He tried his mother and father's room, but again found it lifeless.

James came through the wall suddenly and Fred turned to face him. His smile was still wide. "Where are they? I want to see them," he said to his comrade.

James shook his head. "They're not home yet."

Fred knit his brows in confusion. "I don't understand. Where else would they be?"

He took a deep breath, only for the sake of familiarity, and took an interest in Fred's sneakers. He shook his head and cast his glance back up into the face of the redheaded teen. "They're… they're at the funeral home, Fred."

If Fred had required breathing, he would have stopped. He gasped, but he did not feel air enter his lungs. He did his best to ignore this, and crossed his arms over his chest, his smile completely gone. He and James were standing on the landing of the second floor, and he looked down the staircase toward the living room.

"Funeral home?"

James nodded sympathetically and waited for Fred to say something. When he didn't, he said, "You've been dead for two days, Fred. They had to… make arrangements."

The weight of this information fell on Fred with crushing speed. It had seemed to him that he had not been gone all that long, but he supposed that time moved differently away from home. What had seemed like hours to him had been days to his family and friends. Again, he felt the need to cry, but this time he would not have let himself even if he had the ability. Instead, he fixed his sight on Mr. Potter.

"Then why did you bring me here?"

"They're on their way home. I know you want to see them—"

"Not when they're coming back from—from—that place! I wanted to see them happy and smiling, and tell them I'm fine—"

James shook his head as Fred ranted, and finally took a hold of Fred's shoulders, shaking him. "You're not _fine_ Fred! You're _dead_! I can't help you until you realize that!"

Fred made to argue, but stopped short when he heard the front door open. He expected the familiar din that accompanied the Weasleys when they returned home from an outing, but all he heard was quiet. He wanted to bound down the stairs, but he could not make his feet carry him in the way he wanted them to. Instead, they took very slow steps down the stairs, one at a time, until he could see them as they came.

Dad was leading them in as usual, but rather than shouting at Ron for stepping on his heel or telling Ginny that cat was too expensive to buy, he looked hollow and exhausted. His eyes were red and puffy, his face tear-stained. Fred halted temporarily on the stairs, but took another step down, James following not far behind.

Mum came next, her arm around Ginny, who was wiping at her nose with her jumper sleeve. Mum seemed a bit more composed than the last time Fred had seen her, but not by much. Her semi-composure was short-lived, for when she spotted Fred's scarf, so carelessly tossed on top of his shoes by the door, she began to weep again.

Ron, Hermione, and Percy came next, much in the same manner as Dad. They seemed to be devoid of tears, as they had shed all that they could muster earlier. Percy looked even more serious than Fred had ever remembered him looking, which was definitely saying something. Ron was not watching where he was going, and had it not been for Hermione, who was guiding him, he would have bumped into Ginny. Hermione's eyes were shiny, and Fred held back a stab of surprise when she too took to crying upon seeing his abandoned scarf.

Bill and Fleur came after them. Fleur had tears glistening in her eyes, her head lying on Bill's upper arm as water dripped from his eyes silently. Charlie followed closely behind, trying to hold back tears and nearly tripping over the threshold. Harry stepped into the Burrow almost timidly, as if he expected the family to turn on him the instant he was in their domain, and curse him into oblivion.

Finally, there was George.

Fred came within two steps of the landing before he stopped again. He took in the sight of his twin, and could not bear the sorrow etched upon his features. Fred had only seen George sad a handful of times, and even those times it had not been as bad as it was now.

It was evident that George had not eaten since before the Battle of Hogwarts, and he had probably only changed his clothes upon his mother's insistence. He had also not slept, it appeared, and much like his father and a couple of his brothers, he had cried himself dry. He too saw Fred's scarf and shoes, and stopped in his tracks as he stared down at them. His eyes glazed over and he seemed frozen to the spot. He only moved when Harry closed the door, the sound snapping George from whatever reverie he had been in.

Nobody seemed to know what to do with themselves. Each alternately made movements to spread throughout the house, but thought better of it before they had taken more than a step. The group stood by the door, looking lost, for quite some time.

Ginny's sobs were the only sound.

"Come on, Fred," James whispered, touching his fingers on Fred's shoulders. He did not take them back to wherever they had been before. "You have to say goodbye now."

Fred barely registered the words as he looked down on those he had treasured above anything else. He swallowed and slowly turned to look at Mr. Potter. He shook his head, and James understood.

George was the first to break away from the group, and began to make his way toward Fred. Fred was so overcome by what he was seeing that he could not even fathom trying to contact George at the moment. George passed directly through him, glanced back for only a split second, and continued up the stairs. All living and angelic eyes were upon him as stood outside the bedroom he had shared with Fred, staring at the door as if it were a horrendously complex Runes translation.

He shook his head and turned, going up the stairs further. Fred knew he was headed for the attic. That was where he and George went to get away from the family if it was too stormy or they were too lazy to go down by the lake.

Fred collapsed to sit on the staircase, feeling worse than he ever had before.

"I'm dead," he whispered, finally realizing what he had known all along.


	3. Fear and Regret

A/N: I apologize for the tardiness of this one, but I had to get all geared up for college, and move

**A/N:** I apologize for the tardiness of this one, but I had to get all geared up for college and move. That consumed a great deal of my time in the last week and I am here to tell you that I am still exhausted. But since I've gotten so many reviews for this, and I know that Fred and George still have a ways to go in this story, here it is…

**The Other Side of Goodbye**

**Chapter Three: Fear and Regret**

"_Together we climbed hills and trees_

_Learned of love and ABCs_

_Skinned our hearts and skinned our knees_

_Adieu, Emile, it's hard to die_

_While all the birds are singing in the sky_

_Now that the spring is in the air_

_Pretty girls are everywhere_

_Just think of me and I'll be there_

_We had joy, we had fun_

_We had seasons in the sun_

_But the hills that we climbed_

_Were just seasons out of time"_

"Seasons In the Sun" The Beach Boys

For reasons no more complex than familiarity, Fred swallowed. It both occurred and escaped him, what had just come to pass over his lips. _Dead_, he thought. He felt his chest tighten, and there was a brief illusion that his heart had stopped beating. His breath, so unnecessary, ceased and a part of him still marveled that he was not growing heavy-headed like he had when he and George had been little, having breath-holding contests.

Even though James Potter could not have weighed more than a bit of fluff, Fred could feel the stair he was sitting on bend ever so slightly as the angel in spectacles sat beside him. Fred wished… or perhaps he didn't… that James would say something. Anything.

Anything that could help with this unbearable, wretched pain and sorrow that was consuming every fiber of him. He had only felt like this once before, when George had lost his ear. It had been the briefest of moments, now that he looked back on it, when he simply stopped working and hung in gut-wrenching suspense to find if George's mind had gone.

But then George had told him a joke, and the fear and pain and sorrow had vanished without a trace.

Fred desired more than anything for George to tell him a joke right that instant, to sit beside him with a smirk on his face and a twinkle in his eyes. That had been how they had dealt with such horrible feelings—laughter and joy. Though they had never discussed it outright, the twins had felt it had been their duty to give happiness to those around them. They had been Gryffindors, and they could duel, but they were not Harry Potter. They fought the war on a different front; if people lost their ability to laugh… Voldemort won.

He vaguely wondered if he would ever feel the things he and George had worked so hard to give others again.

"It is tough to come to grips with, Fred. I realize that," James whispered beside him. He was watching Molly with a strange look on his face. "Not many realize that… that it is the ones who leave who have the harder time with it."

Fred sniffled, wishing his tears would fall, instead of bottling up in his eyes and making him think he would explode. "You mean…" his voice was cracked and reedy, as though he had been crying for hours, "because we can watch them, and be so close…"

He could not bear to finish when he saw Ginny break away from their mother and come bounding up the stairs, passing right through him. She disappeared into her room, snapping the door closed behind her. She did nothing to hide the sound of her grief from coming into the halls.

"They can convince themselves that we have moved on to a better place," James said more to himself than his companion, eyes glazed and unfocused. "Which we have, in a way. But sometimes I wonder… I wonder if the ones who keep going didn't get the better deal. They can… they can keep going, keep living… locking us away in fond memories and photos. All we do is… sit on a cloud and watch them do those things. All we have is time."

Fred exhaled shakily and got to his feet. James looked up at him, tears glistening, and knit his brows together.

"Where are you going?"

Fred looked down at him. "I have to find George," he said, voice raising just above a whisper. "He's… he's alone now. I--I can't let him be alone." He faltered slightly, staring down at Harry's father. "He—he hates being—being… by himself."

James rose and rested a hand on Fred's shoulder. "Well, come on then."

A tingle of anger zipped through him when James instantly brought them to the attic. Couldn't they have walked? He wanted to walk, to allow himself to get lost in The Burrow in ways he should have done when he was alive. The anger subsided quickly when he spotted his twin, genuinely alone for the first time in his existence, sitting in the window of the attic.

George had always been quieter, that was true. He had been gentler and sweeter—definitely much quicker to end a joke if someone's safety was in the balance. He had been the one who kept Fred grounded, who had kept him in reality. Fred had often thought that if George had been a single, he would have turned out a bit more like Percy or even Hermione. He had been the one who studied (somewhat) before their exams and cued Fred to the answers through various body signals they had agreed on in advance. He had been the one most hesitant to break any serious rules; he had wanted to back out of blackmailing Ludo Bagman.

Yet, in spite of all of George's ability to grasp and deal with his emotions better than his twin, Fred could not recall a time when George had been so quiet. He had cried, he had shouted, he had done all that one could do as long as they made a sound. He had not heard George say a single word since entering The Burrow, and a strange fear grew in his chest.

Fred slowly approached George, which he could not recall ever doing before. They had always tackled or chased each other. There was no hesitancy between them.

He could feel the grief coming off of George in waves… no… typhoons. He took a few steps closer and halted when he heard George choke back a sob. Fred wanted to die all over again, just because of the pain he knew he was causing his family, his twin. Trying to keep a grip on what he had only realized shortly ago, he struggled to remember that he could not return to George in the way he wanted to.

But he could sit here beside him, and hope that maybe somehow George would know he was there, comforting him.

"George?"

It was James alone who looked to see who was coming into the room the next morning. George, who had not made a sound except for the occasional escape of a sob or a sniffle, had moved from his seat in the windowsill to an old armchair that faced the window. He had been staring out of it since James and Fred had arrived, watching songbirds flit in and out of the tree outside or the stars twinkling overhead.

In the night, he had knit his brows in thought, tears silently falling. Fred had known instantly that George was searching the heavens for his lost brother. He did not know, could not feel, him sitting there at his feet with a hand laid on top of his.

The door creaked, allowing Arthur and Molly to peak their heads into the room. George did not move. For all anyone could tell, he had stopped breathing and blinking. He may have been a George made of wax.

"George, darling… we… we brought you something to eat." Molly stepped into the attic, floorboards creaking, carrying a tray with a spread of food upon it.

The floorboards seemed to bring Fred and George to their senses, because both looked at their mother at exactly the same moment. A strange feeling gripped Fred as he watched Molly approach with a tray full of food that had been reserved only for birthdays, grieving, and days spent in bed with a fever and rain pouring down.

George's favorite treats were all on the platter she carried, save for one thing: a small bowl of cherry jellybeans sat on a corner of the tray. Fred glanced to George, awaiting his reaction. George hated cherry jellybeans—they had been Fred's favorite. George preferred strawberry.

George blinked so slowly that Fred was reminded of Professor Binns.

"You should eat something, dear," Molly urged, setting the platter on the arm of the chair.

There was oatmeal topped with strawberries and blueberries, pumpkin juice, a green apple, jellybeans, and George's favorite: white toast with butter and cinnamon. George loved fruit, and he loved toast. Fred had enjoyed waffles with cream, bacon, pumpkin juice with a dash of cinnamon, and chocolate frogs. That had been the breakfast he got when he was ailing.

George stared down at the food, not saying a word until, "Mum… F-Fred… I—I don't like ch-cherry… but… thanks."

He looked away from Molly then, who looked distraught by her error, and continued to stare out the window.

George did not eat any of the food Molly had left (even the strawberry jellybeans she had placed in the stead of the cherry ones). Fred had tried to get him to, by struggling to push the tray toward George, but had not succeeded. James had fallen asleep in the corner, bunched up in a ball.

Fred had not known angels slept.

When George finally got up from his chair, Fred was surprised. There was no expression on his twin's face. He was moving strangely, as if being controlled by a spell or the strings of a puppet master. James slept on, and Fred got to his feet, following George until he halted outside of their bedroom.

He studied the door much as he had when he had last stood before it. An outsider may have thought he did not understand the concept of a door, but Fred knew that he was trying to find the courage to enter the room on the other side. After several moments of stretching his fingers out and retracting, George finally twisted the knob and pushed.

The room was exactly as Fred remembered leaving it. His bed was neatly made, as was George's, because Molly had been on a cleaning binge even after the wedding. She had straightened up everything constantly, and had admonished her son for messing it up by sitting on it.

The sight seemed to anger George, who was also studying the bed that had been his twin's. Tears brimmed in his eyes and he angrily marched toward it, yanking the sheets loose and throwing the pillows into disorder. He said nothing. When he finished, he seemed satisfied: the bed was now how Fred would have left it.

George stood in the center of the room, looking almost as lost as he had in the living room previously. Finally, after what seemed to be an hour, he sat down at the desk that had been Fred's. He ran his fingers over the stacks of parchment that had no order to them, eyed the quills with chewed-up ends, and looked at the few pictures Fred had put up on the wall. Fred also got tangled in the images, standing behind George and looking over his head.

The twins were in one, standing aboard the Hogwarts Express, leaning out the window and waving to their family as the train pulled out of the station. They also graced the next two, though they were no longer alone. Ginny stood between them in one, each of her brothers weaving one side of her hair into French-braid pigtails. She had been about nine in that picture—she had never learned to braid herself. The third was the family in Egypt, though it was the original copy and not a clipping from The Daily Prophet. Finally, there was Fred and George with Harry and Ron after a snowball fight in the courtyard at Hogwarts, red in the face and looking so happy they were practically glowing.

George got up from the desk and moved to his own, which also had pictures on the wall before it.

He opened a drawer and pulled out some parchment and a quill. He began to scribble away, and as Fred leaned over to read what George was writing, he felt James' hand on his shoulder and a strange tugging behind his backbone. By the time he had turned to ask James what was going on, they were again surrounded by clouds.

"What the--?"

"Our time was up, I'm afraid," James stated in a melancholy voice.

Fred felt anger surge up in his chest. "What do you mean??"

"Angels can only stay on Earth for a short while… you and I would have been ripped back here within seconds, and believe me, that hurts much more than what I just did."

"But I was with George!"

"I know, Fred, I know. But we were with him for nearly two days… we should not have stayed even that long. But," he said quickly, seeing Fred flare up, "we can go back within a day or so. We cannot stay as long then, but we can go back."

Fred made to argue further, but James silenced him with a hand over Fred's mouth. The gaze he fixed on the redhead was enough to kill the words read to tumble over Fred's lips. When James lowered his hand, all Fred was able to do was stare at him.

"I'm sorry, Fred."

The pit of Fred's stomach felt like he had swallowed several metal weights. He inhaled deeply, searching for a way to give words to the feelings he wanted to express. "You… you really are, aren't you?"

James took a half of a step back and nodded solemnly. "Yes, I am. I… I remember what it was like." He knit his brows together and cast his eyes to the side. "How inexplicably horrendous it was to be ripped from the only world I had ever known and the only people I had ever loved… yes, I remember. It felt like… dying, for lack of a better word."

He sniffled, and Fred felt the fight in him cease to exist.

"It was like… dying." James shook his head. "That's the only way I can explain how I felt. I left my life so suddenly, so quickly, that like you… I didn't know I was gone." His angelic eyes began to fill with tears that could not fall. "I didn't realize that I had been stolen away from my life. One second I was standing my ground with a bolt of green light coming at me, and the next I was lying on a cloud staring up at the sun."

Fred took a step closer to James and laid a comforting hand on his arm. He had never been good at knowing what to say to make someone's tears vanish, or their fears run away, and he felt strange. Even when Ginny had been little, and crawled into his bed during terrible storms, all he had been able to do was to tell her jokes or read her favorite book to her.

George had been the one who had always known what to say.

James shook his head again, this time a bit more angrily, as if trying to shake the memory of his death away. He succeeded somewhat, Fred, decided, but he did have one last thing to say about it.

"I can't tell you that it gets easier, Fred. I won't lie to you. Bernard probably told you that once you enter the Gates, all the pain you ever felt goes away. I know that mine hasn't left yet, and maybe that's because Harry is still down there. Perhaps I won't lose all of my pain until he's here—everyone else I loved is here now, except for my son.

"Even if you get your wings, Fred, and even if you go into those Pearly Gates… some little part of you will remember George, and your family, and your friends, and how it hurt to leave them against your will. That pain won't stop until they are here with you… and even then it might not. You've got a lot of people to wait for… and they, in turn, will have someone to wait for.

"Funny thing, isn't it?" James let out a mirthless laugh. "I always thought… that when I died… if I got to Heaven… I wouldn't hurt anymore. I wouldn't be scared, or miss anyone. The war would a million lives away, and I wouldn't sit up every night next to Harry's crib, hoping we would see the next morning's light."

James no longer seemed to be talking to Fred. "I wasn't afraid to die. I knew it had to happen someday. I always reckoned I wouldn't make it to thirty, but I guess I always hoped deep down that I would watch my son get married and die with grandchildren around my bed. I didn't get that. I got death at 21, on my favorite holiday, and I watched my son grow up at a distance that I can't comprehend fully. But… I wasn't afraid to die. I was afraid… to not live."

James looked up when he finished speaking and fixed Fred with a questioning gaze. "Were you afraid?"

Fred knit his brows together in thought.

"… _and then he said, 'To the organized mind, death is but the next great adventure', or something like that." Harry plopped down on the couch next to Hermione. _

_Fred sat near the fireplace, playing chess with Ron and trying to devise a way to finally beat the snot out of his little brother at this stupid game. George was next to him, flipping idly through a Quidditch Quarterly magazine. _

"_Sounds silly, if you ask me," said Ron, taking one of Fred's pawns._

"_Luckily nobody did," Fred snipped, trying to find a way to retaliate. If all else failed, he thought, he had some itching powder in his trunk upstairs. _

"_Well, I just mean… how's it an adventure? You already know where you're going—" Ron said defensively. _

"_Do you, now?" George asked without looking up from his reading. _

"_Yeah, Heaven. If you do all the good things you should and whatnot, you go there, right? And if not, you go straight to H—"_

"_Ron!" Hermione admonished, and he stopped long enough to give her a look that quite plainly said 'Oh, please'._

"_And if you go to Heaven, well, I reckon it can't be that bad. Unless you have to play a harp and fly about with a nancy-boy white dress on." Ron shrugged as he took another of Fred's pieces. _

"_So long as I go laughing, I don't really care," Fred replied, happily snagging Ron's rook. _

_George gave an appreciative laugh and they high-fived. "Only way to go, if you ask me: laughing."_

"_You would say that," Hermione interjected, giving Fred and George scornful, motherly glares. "Everything is a joke to you two."_

"_So what if it is?" Fred asked, looking up from the game. "Better to live a little than to hide beneath the beds, shaking and trying to avoid the inevitable, I think. 'sides, what's wrong with dying with a laugh?"_

"_Death isn't funny, George!"_

"_I'm Fred, actually, Miss Smarty."_

_She gave a sound of disgust. "Ugh, whatever—Fred! Death is… it's serious, and it's definitely no laughing matter."_

"_Then how do you want to go?" Ron asked. _

_Hermione looked appalled as well as intrigued by this question. "I don't know… probably in my sleep after finishing up a good book."_

"_Shocker there," George muttered. _

"_And how about you, then, George? How do you want to die?" She appeared as though she felt herself one up on the twin, crossing her arms over her chest and feeling superior. "I mean really, now."_

_George allowed the magazine he was reading to slip from his grasp slightly. "Really? You really want to know what I think about death?"_

"_Morbid little hairball, isn't she?" Fred asked._

"_I really want to know, George. You and Fred are always laughing, always joking… don't you have one serious thought, even about death?" She narrowed her eyes. She was testing him, Fred thought._

"_Alright," George said, straightening up and fixing her with an equally steely gaze. "I'll give you a serious thought about death: it happens. To everyone. We all have to go sometime, right? No matter what we do, we're going to end up in a graveyard on some miserable hill, with flowers and a huge rock with our name on it. Personally, I'm going to enjoy every bloody second I have in this life, and I want to die with a smile on my face and a laugh in my heart. I don't want to die with tears in my eyes or some cancer eating away my insides. I spend my time making people laugh, and that's how I want to die. I'm not scared of it."_

"_Me either," Fred told George. "I feel the same," he said to the rest of the group. "I'm not scared. If we're good people, we go to Heaven. Everyone we know is there, hopefully, and I think if I die laughing that it'd be much better than dying any other way."_

"_So long as we go together, of course," George half-joked. _

"_Oh, push off and get your own death," Fred joked, shoving his twin's shoulder slightly. _

"_Oy, you almost pushed me into the fire—"_

Fred swallowed. "No… no… I wasn't scared. I went into Hogwarts knowing what might happen. We all talked about it before we went in. We knew not everyone was going to make it out of the castle. But—"

"You thought George would be here too," James finished for him.

He nodded. "Well, yeah. We… we shouldn't have split up. George didn't want to. I didn't either. But… we had to. We couldn't expect Colin to lead a group, could we? George and I knew how to duel." He sniffled, feeling the moment of his death rush back upon him. "I didn't even say goodbye.

"I never said goodbye to any of them. Not even George. My whole life… I never once said goodbye to him. Wherever I went, he followed. I went where he did. I couldn't bear… I couldn't… I couldn't be more than a room away from him, and even then, it was hard. It wasn't… right. And now I'm a whole world away."

"You'll get to say goodbye, Fred, I promise," James whispered, no hint of humor on his face. "I promise."


	4. The Funeral, part one

The Other Side of Goodbye

**The Other Side of Goodbye**

**Chapter 4: The Funeral, part one**

Fred had never been much for waiting. He could not even begin to count the number of times his mother had called him "impatient". Nor could he figure out how many times George had told him to wait just a moment more before springing a prank to life. He had always been a creature of impulse. He had never understood the use of a pause or hesitation.

Even if Fred Weasley had not been dead, he would have been bored out of his mind with all this bloody waiting.

He wanted, no, _needed_ to see George. He had no method of telling time where he was, for it seemed that his watch had broken when the brick wall had fallen on top of him and it was always day among the clouds. The vague wonderment of why that was crept into his brain, but quickly vanished as he attempted to count away the hours… or days… oh, how long had it been since he had been taken?

James did not seem nearly as anxious, but every now and then he would shift as though he too were uncomfortable. Fred wondered if James was just as anxious to return to Earth. After all, he had been up here considerably longer and Fred had noticed that James was paying as much attention to Harry as guiding Fred through death would allow.

He wondered if, maybe, James had taken on the task of helping Fred because it was a chance to see Harry…

"Can we go back yet?" Fred inquired hopefully.

"No, Fred… I'm sorry, but it's only been a short while. Be patient."

Fred shifted against the pillar of cloud he was leaning on. Just as he had as a little boy, he struggled to keep quiet, but found he simply couldn't. He got up and began to pace to and fro. A slight smirk found its way to his lips when he remembered his mother telling him to sit still and be patient.

Suddenly it seemed too long ago.

"_Fred, you need to sit still so I can cut your hair, darling," Molly Weasley chided lightly as she struggled to keep hold of her five year old son. _

"_I don't want you to cut it, mum!" Fred answered hastily, trying to jump down off of the stool he was sitting on. "It's fine the way it is!"_

_George sat nearby on a chair, hands in his lap and his feet swinging beneath him. He was much better at staying put than Fred, though he was very fidgety as well. "Would you just let her do it, Fred, so we can go play??"_

"_See? Now listen to your brother and sit still," Molly grabbed Fred by both shoulders and planted him firmly on the chair. "It'll only take a minute, Fred, but I'm tired of you and George running around looking like you've been living in the Forbidden Forest."_

_Fred tried with all he had to stay still, but he simply could not do it. His mum seemed to realize he was trying, and allowed him to swing his feet a little, twiddle his thumbs, and tell jokes to his twin. _

Fred's smirk spread into a smile when he recalled that all his life had been spent that way—fidgeting and joking. In hindsight, it had probably not been wise of his mother to allow him to do those things while cutting his hair, because allowing him to do something once made him think he could get away with it every single time.

Somehow, she had become much less accepting of his fidgeting during haircuts as he got older, and Fred imagined that no matter what she said, she had been grateful that Fred and George had wanted to grow out their hair in their fifth and sixth years. Then again, she had been just a smidge too happy to hack it all off for their seventh year. But even then, Fred was berated for tapping his toes and turning his head to talk to George--

"If it were at all possible, you'd wear a hole straight through that cloud," James muttered, flipping through a book. Heaven had quite the literary selection, and James had popped out of the Go-Between for a moment to grab some reading material. "Be patient, Fred."

Fred thought of how Hermione would be excited to see Heaven's library. He smirked momentarily, for his joy faded when he recalled Hermione at the bottom of the staircase, gazing at Fred's scarf and tears dripping from her eyes.

He missed Hermione. She had been fun to try to rile up. He and George had always loved to try and get her going over some joke.

"Obviously you didn't watch me as well as you thought," Fred quipped, trying to take his mind off of the bushy-haired girl. "Never been much of the patient type."

James looked up momentarily and let out a half-laugh. "True. Sirius was the same way. Never could sit still for more than a heartbeat."

"It just seems—" Fred paused, shook his head, and corrected himself, "seemed a waste of life, that's all. You're meant to live it, not sit around waiting for something to happen." He paced a bit quicker. "Can we go back yet?"

James snapped his book shut and glanced up toward the sun. He narrowed his eyes and seemed to think for a moment.

"Are you trying to blind yourself?"

"No… just… Fred, are you absolutely sure you want to go back right now?"

A twinge of confusion filtered through his body, but Fred did not hesitate. "Of course, you great git! I'll take what I can! I just want to see them again—"

James got to his feet and held up a silencing hand. "Fred, just let me explain something before we go back, okay?"

Fred did his best to bite back a smart remark. He took in a deep, unnecessary breath and nodded his head. "Go on. What is it, then?"

It appeared that James, who had been dead much longer than Fred, had not yet grown accustomed to giving up human mannerisms either. He swallowed and glanced down at Fred's shoes before looking back up to explain. He shifted his weight to a different foot and crossed his arms. He looked very hesitant to say whatever it was that he was about to, and just as Fred was about to haul off and shake it out of him, James finally spoke.

"Today… today's your funeral, Fred."

The shock of the words hit Fred full-force and for a time all he could do was blink in response. Somehow, even though he had accepted (more or less) that he was dead (but not at all happy about it), he had never paused to think about what would happen to the body that had sheltered him in life. His death had been painless, and even though he now stood transparent upon a cloud, he had not really realized that he had no body. Of course, he had seen it, lying there in the Great Hall with a smirk on its face—his face—yet…

Perhaps he was used to seeing his body belong to someone else. There was an exact replica of him walking about, though now it was missing an ear. Still.

The thought of his body, which had kept him so warm, and allowed him to feel the cold… that had shed his tears and shown his smiles to the world… told his jokes and healed his wounds… the heart that kept him going, the lungs that gave him breath, the throat that had given him voice… feet that had danced nights away and hair that made him a Weasley… scars that told his story… the mind that kept his personality, his memories, his ideas, thoughts, hopes, and dreams…

It was all going into the ground today.

He suddenly felt as though he were caught in an icy blast of wind. Why hadn't he noticed before that he was cold? He looked down at his feet, silently marveling that they were somewhat transparent. His body… it was gone, and he was cold, and all he wanted was a goblet of hot butterbeer and the crackling fire in the living room of The Burrow.

But he couldn't have that anymore.

"O-oh," he finally managed, and James looked sympathetic. He crossed his arms and mimicked James' awkward stance. "I… I understand."

"Do you?" James asked quietly. "Are you sure you want to be there?"

Fred pushed his brows together and cast a sideways glance at a puff of cloud. He knew it wasn't there, but all he could see was George's face, crying. All he could remember was his mother sobbing in the Great Hall. All he could hear was Ron trying to shush Ginny while he struggled to keep his sorrow at bay. All he could feel was the grief of his family, tightening the air and pushing in on him until he felt like he would crumble beneath it, helpless to stop their tears.

"Yeah… of course. Might give me a bit of closure. 'Sides…" His eyes welled but did not overflow. "Can't expect the family to… to go through that… alone."

James heaved a sigh and shrugged. "Just remember this was your decision."

Fred nodded, a strange sensation gripping him as James reached out to take them back to The Burrow. A flurry of images rushed through his head—coffins, tears, headstones, black clothes, clouds—he tried to make them stop. He swallowed, attempting to push back the fear that was knotting his stomach. He was caught strongly between the desire to see his family and the desire to wait until he was in the ground.

With the blink of an eye, they were falling, falling…

When Fred found himself lying face down in the grass this time, he was nowhere near as excited to be home as he had been before. It took him a moment to find the courage to look up from the ground, his fingers knotted in the grass as if that would help keep him stable. He inhaled sharply when James called his name, and looked up.

The sun was shining down almost too brightly, and the flowers were in full bloom. Mrs. Weasley's garden looked like it may have been Eden, had it not been filled with so many tearful people. There were clusters of professors beneath the trees, groups of students near the hedges, and knots of redheads here and there. A few of the remaining shop keepers from Diagon Alley and Hogsmeade stood together near a table of food, half-heartedly sipping at punch that was salty with tears.

And there, beneath the willow tree, was a coffin… the coffin… _his _coffin. The lid was in two parts, with the part that would cover Fred's torso and face open.

He had never wished so badly he was having a nightmare.

Fred somehow managed to get to his feet, and before he could stop himself, he was nearly beside the long wooden box. He felt James grasp his arm gently, and he looked at the angel. He shook his head, and James nodded, letting go of him and watching as Fred slowly approached his final resting place.

His breathing was hesitant and every few steps he had to pause. Dread was mounting in his chest… he needed to see… but could he handle the sight? He could have if George were beside him, if mum were here… He had never felt this scared and alone, not even as a child. It was as though he were not nineteen years old, as though he had never fought in battle, and as if he had never known someone who had died. He felt like he was a little boy, terrified and wanting to cling to the hem of his mother's apron or to his twin.

But he forced himself to remember that he was Fred Weasley: Gryffindor, mischief-maker, and victim of war.

With one final heave of breath, he forced himself to look into his coffin.

Had he still been in his body, he would have vomited.

The strangest rush of feelings overcame him, so strongly that he felt the need for a physical reaction. He shouted out as he looked down at his body, but only James Potter heard him.

When had he ever been that pale??

Fred stared down at his body and realized with a horrible sensation that it was his. He was used to seeing his body walking around with somebody else behind the wheel, but now that he was looking at this… he could no longer fool himself into thinking he was simply watching George sleep. There were scars that George did not have, both of his ears were still intact, and the ghost of a crooked grin that was slightly different than his twin's still haunted his lips. He was too pale now, so… empty.

So still.

He shivered and his lower lip trembled. He wished he could cry, or vomit—just something more than stand there and shake like a little boy lost in a thunderstorm. He wanted his twin, or his mother, or both… someone to comfort him and tell him that he would be okay. Wipe away tears he wished would find their way to freedom. Fred collapsed to his knees with his hand on the edge of his coffin, and it was not long before James knelt beside him.

"Why did I have to go?" Fred asked, voice quivering above a whisper. He turned glistening eyes on James. "Did I do something wrong?"

James shook his head slowly, looking from the fallen Weasley to the inside of the coffin. "I wondered the same thing for a long while… but then I was told that I hadn't. No explanation as to _why_ I was taken, just a small argument to my reasoning. You did nothing wrong, Fred."

"Then… then why?"

He moved his jaw as if he were trying to force out words. He said nothing and shook his head. "I can't answer that."

Fred steeled himself and struggled to his feet. He crossed his arms over his chest, feeling a little cold as he began to walk through the sunlit garden. He was struck by how many people there were… some he never would have expected at his funeral.

"All these people… they're here for me?" Fred cast his gaze around the over-crowded backyard.

"Of course! You were popular, of course, but you were also a tremendous friend. Not to brag, but this is quite similar to my funeral. Only the most important people to me were not present, save for Remus and Dumbledore." James looked temporarily saddened by these words, or at least as saddened as an angel could look. "At least you've got everyone you cared about here."

"Professor Sprout?" Fred wondered aloud, catching a glimpse of his former Herbology professor. A short, hasty laugh tumbled out of him at the memory of the short witch swatting him with a trowel after he and George attempted to steal one of her plants for experimentation. "She hated me!"

"Quite the contrary, it seems." James folded his arms over his chest and halted next to Fred. He issued a small chuckle, and Fred thought that he was probably playing a similar memory through his head.

Indeed, Professor Sprout was sobbing her eyes out and dabbing at her nose with a tissue as she spoke with Ron. Ron was trying to hold his own sorrows back, Hermione clinging to his arm in a gesture of comfort. After a moment, Sprout threw her arms around Ron, who finally broke down and allowed his tears to flow.

"She was quite fond of you, Fred, except when your jokes involved her plants. She was the same while I was at school." He smirked slightly and shook his head. "Beat the living daylights out of Sirius when he tried to make Snape eat a poisonous plant out of her personal collection."

James' smirk was too much for Fred to handle, for it reminded him of the one on his own dead face. He wanted to collapse onto the bench behind him, but he could not since it was already occupied and James was beckoning for him to follow. "Sorry," he muttered as he accidentally passed through a guest that he dimly recognized.

"You don't have to apologize, Fred, he didn't feel it."

"Sorry. Habit, I guess."

As Fred turned sorrowful eyes around him, a figure seated on a bench amidst his mother's daisies caught his eye. Forgetting that he was supposed to be following Harry's father, he slowly made his way toward the figure, realizing immediately who she was. He sat beside her, his eyes brimming as he gazed at her sorrowful face.

Angelina Johnson, in his entire recollection, had only ever cried in front of him when she was injured in a quidditch match. She was always cheerful and brazen, filled with life and determined that tears were usually just a waste of time. It had been what attracted him to her—well, aside from her outstanding beauty and ability to play quidditch. Now she was sitting among the friendliest of flowers, her favorites (he had given her a bouquet before the Yule Ball), with tears dripping out of her eyes and her fingers clutching what Fred recognized to be one of the Weasley sweaters he had given her after having outgrown it. She did not sob or gasp for air. Indeed, she may have been a statue that was merely being rained on. She had decided against black robes for the occasion, and went instead with a bright red pantsuit.

Red was Fred's favorite color, and he'd told her that once. He could not remember why, but he was quite sure that it had been during an Astronomy lesson in second year.

"Angelina…" he whispered, scooting a bit closer. "I know you can't hear me, or feel me," he said as he reached for her hand, coming close but not making contact, "but I'm here. I'm sorry I had to leave you this way…"

Someone was tugging on his arm, urging him to follow. "Come on, Fred."

With a great effort, James tugged Fred away from Angelina physically, though Fred would not take his eyes off of her. "I loved her," he whispered, tears welling up in his eyes. "Why couldn't I have realized that sooner?"

James exhaled through his nose, remained silent. He put an arm around the redhead's shoulder, giving him a quick, hopefully comforting squeeze.

Fred looked at his angelic companion, eyes filled to bursting with sorrow. "I never thought I'd wish I could cry."

James released a single, mirthless laugh. "Yeah. I understand that. I still want to be able to do that from time to time."

The lost Weasley opened his mouth to reply but stopped short. A strange sensation was permeating his being. It was foreign, yet somehow familiar. It was like an internal shiver—almost like the ones he would get before finishing George's sentences. The shiver morphed into a sharp pain as it shot to his skull, and clanged around in his mind until it suddenly came to a halt. Fred stumbled and fell to his knees, James catching him before he could hit the ground. He closed his eyes and tried to steady himself.

_An earpiercing shriek… pain unknown to anyone who has never lost a piece of themselves. Searing fire burning through him in the form of an earsplitting cry of desperation._

Fred opened his eyes. "George?" He looked at James. "What—what's going on?"

James sighed and looked down at the boy he had taken under his wings. "Because you and George still share a soul, you can still feel each other. When you were alive, you shared each other's pains and joys even before you'd spoken about them. His thoughts were yours and vice versa. It is the same now; only the emotions must be much more strongly felt by one before the other senses them. I imagine what you just heard and felt was George's pain."

Fred was on his feet so quickly that it seemed unnatural. If it were at all possible, he appeared more distraught than James had recalled seeing him thus far. He swallowed and took a step back. He seemed to be shivering, as if it were suddenly very cold outside. Though he was already transparent, he began to fade in and out as though his soul were pulsating.

"Where is he? I need to see him," he whispered urgently. "I need to know he's okay—"

James reached out and grasped Fred's shoulder. Instantly, the two found themselves in what had once been Fred and George's flat in Diagon Alley. However, Fred could not recall it being in such a state. Yes, the Weasley boys had been a messy lot, but this was absolutely out of their league.

Shreds of paper everywhere, furniture overturned, dishes smashed.

The only things left untouched had belonged to Fred.

George was pacing the living room so quickly that he was bordering on jogging it, pulling on his hair and breathing harshly. He stopped after doing a few lengths, and Fred could feel the fury building up within him. George looked around as if searching for something, then let out a gut-wrenching cry of anguish that nearly equaled the one that had echoed through Fred's mind. He slammed his foot into the corner of an overturned chair and broke down into tears, collapsing to the floor.

"GOD DAMNIT!" he shouted. His features contorted into utter sorrow and he pulled his knees to his chest. "I can't do this," he told himself.

Fred was instantly by George's side, trying to tell him that he was there, he would talk, he would understand, but George made no indication that he was there. "George—"

George looked toward a picture of he and his twin on the opening day of their shop, hanging crooked on the wall opposite. They were smiling and waving, arms slung around each other's shoulders as fireworks went off in the background. "Bastard," he told the photograph. "Leaving me here like this…" he shook his head. "Sorry, I didn't mean that. It's just… you went where I can't follow, and I can't even tell everyone what I want to because I keep waiting for you to finish what I start. I keep waiting for you to open the door and come in, but you never do."

Fred inhaled deeply and tried to overcome the emotions welling up in his chest. "I'm sorry, George. I'm so, so—"

George shook his head, shaggy red hair toppling into his anguished eyes. A small, almost lifeless grin made itself known on his lips. "You're probably up there laughing at me right now, telling me to buck up and quit being a pansy."

The deceased twin slowly moved to kneel in front of the living half, invisible. He shook his head and let out a shuddering breath. "Why would I do that? No… I wouldn't laugh… this has got to be the furthest thing from funny I could ever think of."

"I don't want to disappoint you, you know. But you… you were always the leader. The first to speak, the first to walk… the first to breathe. Everything I have ever done… you showed me how to do." George was lost in a torrent of sobs for a moment, pulling his knees so close that James wondered how it was possible. "Now you're gone and I can't remember… I don't know what to do with myself. Sometimes I forget… how to walk, to blink, to breathe… How do I get through this??"

"With me," Fred replied quietly.

George thought he heard the curtain ruffle in a soft breeze.


	5. The Newspaper

**A/N:**

To my dear readers,

Chapter Five is currently in the works. I have had some rather unfortunate things of my own happen since this was last updated, all of which (in combination with my studies at the local university) have kept me from writing. However, I've been listening to "Deathly Hallows" in between classes and realized that even though I'm not really big in the fanfic scene anymore… I can't abandon Fred and George. How many laughs have they given me? How many tears have I shed for both of them?

The least I can do is finish this.

I plan to write a fifth chapter and go back to flesh out the older chapters and make them a bit better and longer. I suspect there will be at least… hmm… five more chapters of this fic, because one has to remember it is not only George that Fred is going to have to let go of (and not just Weasleys!). I want to do this story justice, damnit.

And also, I've been writing snippets of George's twin story to this one. I also have to admit that I am an adamant anti George/Angelina shipper, so there may be a story for that sometime. I like to think of George with Alicia, Katie, or Verity. Angelina, though? The thought makes me a bit queasy (hello mental problems for both parties!).

I digress.

I want to finish all of my works starring Fred and George, and hopefully add one or two more. The chapters will be slow to appear (though not nearly as slow as this pending one has been!), but I *have* to do this. For me. For Fred. For George.

Now, so this chapter won't get deleted for having no "story content"…

* * *

In life, Fred had considered himself to be perfectly in tune with George. They were, as the two had often joked, two parts of one soul. Every little thought George had was clearly written in the air for Fred to read, each little word heard in his mind before George spoke it. Each dream that danced through George's slumber was often startlingly similar to Fred's. Sentences finished for one another, thoughts exchanged silently, dreams shared…

But now, sitting here on the floor next to his shattered twin, Fred could not understand him.

There had been the time when the twins had fought over leaving Hogwarts—oh yes, they had fought. It had been a brief thing, shouting about abandoning and hating Umbridge and other trivial aspects. Yet, George had been quite adamant, at least for a moment, that leaving was the wrong thing to do. How could they abandon their brother and sister? Harry? Lee? Katie? He had yelled at Fred, startling several paintings to life, until whatever magic it was that coursed between the twins took hold and brought him around. The fight had lasted all of two minutes.

Fred understood that.

There had been a night, so long ago now, when Ginny had disappeared. They had feared the worst. Surely there was no escape from the Chamber of Secrets? Fred and George had remained quiet in the common room, but they both wept that night. George had been more audible than Fred, and Fred remembered that George hadn't cared who heard him. His grief had consumed him and it was for the world to see.

Fred understood that, too.

Fred had known George to yell and to cry. But… to break things?

As George struggled to calm himself, to stop shaking with emotion, Fred glanced around the room. The paper littering the floor had once been pages of The Daily Prophet. Fred moved away from George, tilting his head to the side to get a better look at the tiny print. He noticed half of his own face looking back at him, laughing, from one page that was covered with shreds of another. He reached down and tried to move the paper, but to no avail. He looked to James.

James looked to the window and then sighed. A breeze no stronger than James' sigh flitted through the open window and blew away the shreds of paper covering Fred's interest. George sniffled and rose shakily, closed the window, and then fell back into a sitting position with a blank look on his face. Fred looked back to the paper on the floor.

"ONE HALF OF WEASLEY WONDER TWINS LOSES LIFE IN HOGWARTS BATTLE

"Frederick Weasley, identical twin to George Weasley, was amongst the deceased at Hogwarts following a battle between Harry Potter and You-Know-Who last week. The young man, Fred to his friends and family, was one of the owners of Weasley's Wizard Wheezes, a popular shop in Diagon Alley and the only one that continued to make a profit during the height of the He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named fright. Mr. Weasley was a boisterous young man who loved life and all it had to offer.

" 'My brother was a bit of a card,' George Weasley wrote The Daily Prophet, citing his desire to mourn in private as the reason for not interviewing in person. 'He was an excellent wizard, much smarter than many gave him credit for. More than anything, though, he was my brother. I love him and I miss him very much.'

"This reporter was able to reach Harry Potter for comment, a feat nearly impossible at this time. While Mr. Potter expressed his sorrow over the deaths of many of his friends, he expressed himself more vividly while speaking of Fred. 'Fred was like a brother to me and I wish I could have done something to save him. The Weasleys mean the world to me—they're my family now—and Fred was part of that. It was like losing a brother.'

"Fred was the son of Arthur and Molly Weasley, who refused to comment. He was also the brother of William Weasley, Charles Weasley, Percival Weasley, George Weasley, Ronald Weasley, and Ginevra Weasley. Percival, or Percy, Weasley, left us with this remark about his late brother: 'I never understood Fred. He and I were so different. I lost sight of a lot of things for a while, and he was one of them. When I came back, I hoped maybe we could find each other again. I… I want the world to know that Fred died laughing.'

"Mr. Weasley was nineteen years old at the time of his death. He was caught off-guard during an explosion that left him buried in stone rubble. His funeral is closed to the public and will be held at the residence of his parents."

Fred looked up at George, who had his head in his hands.

A loud crack made both Weasleys look up. Their dad had appeared on top of the couch, looking quite solemn. He was dressed in somber black robes, but when he sat down and crossed his ankles, Fred noticed the loudly colored socks he had gifted his dad when he was fifteen years old. George took in a deep breath and let it out slowly, shuddering as he did.

"I can't do it, dad. I can't go and… see him like that."

Arthur sniffled and a tear dripped down his face. "I know it's hard, George, especially for you. But think of how you'll feel if you don't go."

George broke down into sobs then, and Arthur slowly crossed the room to him, taking a seat beside him and putting an arm around him. George collapsed into his father's chest and let out a guttural noise.

"Why did it have to be Fred?" George demanded of nobody in particular.

"Nobody knows, son."

The room was filled with George's sounds of grief and Arthur cried silently beside him, tears dripping into George's hair. Fred sat at their feet, wishing he could add his own tears to the mix. After nearly ten minutes, Arthur steeled himself and looked down at his damaged son.

"We best be going now, George. It's almost time."

George had lost all will to fight, and so stood beside his father, holding onto his arm for the reason, Fred surmised, that he did not trust himself to apparate without splinching himself. With a crack, the two Weasleys vanished.

Fred looked around the flat again.


	6. Getting Ready to Say Goodbye

A/N: Wow. It's been a while. As John Lennon said, "Life is what happens when you're busy making other plans". I had a really rough go last semester, but now my summer has truly arrived and I am finishing this story, damnit. I owe Fred and George quite a lot and this is the least I can do. So... please review and let me know if I've still got my mojo going for this story- this chapter feels a bit odd to me.

**Chapter 5: Getting Ready to Say Goodbye**

Fred sat with George for a few moments, trying to find the strength to touch his twin reassuringly. James Potter stood by, sentry to the proceedings, until George got to his feet, wiped at his face with the heel of his hand, and walked to the bathroom. Fred got up and followed, but James remained leaning against the doorway to the kitchen.

George stared into the mirror, eyes dripping with pain and his breath labored. He stared at his own reflection, unblinking for several heartbeats before looking down at his hands, no emotion apparent on his features. He began to wash his hands in the sink and Fred noticed that they were still healing from the Battle of Hogwarts- his fingers were covered with small cuts and bruises, though, Fred reasoned... those could have been a result of the rather thorough thrashing George had given their flat. George dried his hands on a towel and continued to stare into the mirror.

Suddenly, he bent at the middle and wretched into the sink. He vomited twice more before straightening up and wiping at his mouth with the towel he had used to dry his hands. Fred watched, unable to provide the comfort he so desperately wanted to give as well as receive. As George struggled to stop shaking, Fred sobbed tearlessly and tried to lay a hand on his brother's shoulder. George looked back into the mirror and pushed back his hair to gaze at his missing ear. He sniffled and let his hair, which was just long enough to mask his new deformity, topple back into place.

George took a step back, unknowingly stepping right into Fred, and swallowed. With a pop, he Apparated to The Burrow.

James grasped Fred's shoulder and together they returned to The Burrow. They appeared right next to George.

George was outside of the kitchen door, next to his mother's azaleas and staring at the doorknob like he had stared at the door to his and Fred's room. He looked as though he were not real, not there, not feeling. He had no emotion on his face and he was unbearably still. The Weasley garden whispered softly in a warm breeze, flowers and leaves rustling as they danced slowly. The crowd of the funeral was beyond the cluster of foliage that protected the kitchen door, and the leaves drown them out, their voices carried away on the wind. No birds were singing, Fred noticed- all but the rustle of leaves... and... A soft sound of crying bled through from the other side of the door. Just as Fred moved forward to try and grab him again, George reached out, twisted the knob and pushed the door open.

The crying immediately ceased.

"George, darling," came Mrs. Weasley's downtrodden voice from within. "I was just about to come and see if… if you were alright."

"Fine, mum," George rasped in reply. "Can I… help…?" He swallowed and could not finish his question in full.

Molly, wearing pitch-black robes and the golden necklace that Fred and George had given her, looked perfectly awful. Her face was blotchy and it was clear that she had stopped crying only for George's sake. Her hair was twisted up into an elegant knot, though a few whisps escaped near her face. Fred remembered that knot very well- she wore it every year at Christmas, and he had always told her it looked wonderful. Yet, somehow, it seemed more undone than it had in the past. Her hands shook as she took George's cloak and slung it over Fred's chair near the dining table. She quaked as she hugged her living son, and despite her best intentions to remain strong, a few tears escaped on George's front.

Fred watched the exchange silently. George stared over his mother's head, not hugging her back, with tears in his eyes and a stony expression as he stared at his cloak on Fred's empty, unmoved chair. He released a shaky breath and sniffed when Molly moved away from him. She reached up and ran a thumb over his cheek.

"I love you, George."

George swallowed and a tear fell. "Love you too, mum."

Molly let a few more drops fall silently before turning to the task at hand. "Um, well, I suppose you could help me with—"

But the swinging door that led to the living room was squeaking on its hinges and George was gone.

James could tell when he was neither wanted nor needed, and took the opportunity to sit at the Weasley kitchen table. Later, when he was questioned about what kind of lunatic would allow Fred Weasley to be unattended at his own funeral, James would reply that it had simply been the right thing to do. Also, Molly had been listening to the Wizarding Wireless very quietly, and he enjoyed her humming ever so much, even when she struggled through songs that she could remember her son bobbing his head to as he washed dishes by hand as punishment for his latest mischief.

Fred followed George up the stairs and past their bedroom. He knew why George was not in the yard, not near the coffin, not talking to anyone. George, aside from being the one most affected by Fred's loss, was a walking clone of the man in the coffin. With his hair grown out, there was no way to tell him from his twin. George did not wish to be swarmed, to be comforted, to be… seen. Fred understood this.

George paused near Ginny's door, where Fred heard a faint crying and someone gently comforting. Ginny and Harry, Fred thought.

_Ginny._

It occurred to Fred that perhaps he was being a bit… selfish.

He listened to his sister cry, whisper to Harry that she didn't want to go out and face a world without Fred's laughter in it, and blow her nose. He thought of his baby sister, a beautiful girl with a bit of spice. He recalled a small girl sitting at the breakfast table years ago, sprinkling cinnamon on her toast and asking Fred and George what they were going to do that day. He remembered spending lazy afternoons beneath the willow tree that now shaded his coffin, watching the gnomes in the garden wrestle while Ginny tried to get Fred and George to braid her hair. He remembered a dark night of fear, one of not knowing if he would ever see his sister again or if she would truly be lost in the Chamber forever. He could all but feel her fingers wrapped around his elbow at the Quidditch World Cup as he and George fled the camp with Ginny in tow on their father's orders. He remembered each day after those awful ordeals, and how he had watched her grow into a strong young woman- and one of the few who could ever get the upper hand with either Fred or George.

He remembered that he was her brother, too.

Yes, it had been he who died, and George's pain was immense… but… as Fred heard his sister cry for him he realized that he had left so much more than George and his mum behind. He had left more than his twin and his body. He had left his entire family, his friends… his life. George was not the only one who needed to get through this day, and Fred… he steeled himself on the landing of the staircase and realized that no matter how much he whined to James, no matter how much he pleaded with Bernard, no matter how hard he wished to be alive again, he was dead and would remain so forever.

But Ginny, sobbing on Harry Potter's shoulder, was alive and in pain. She wanted her brother- her brother who told her awful jokes to make her feel better, who helped her pass her first few levels of Potions, who always saved her from the thunder storms, and whose laugh made her feel like warm sunshine inside. She missed him, and mornings spent building houses out of toast. Fred could feel her longing for all of these things, even through the door. It was though being an angel had lent him a sixth sense he had only ever experienced with George- knowing his thoughts. Now he could feel Ginny, hear her remembering these things (races down the stairs to dinner, jumping the banister to get ahead), and feel her sorrow seep right down into his toes. He leaned heavily against the wall, feeling as though he would have fell down if it hadn't been there. Ginny sorrow and pain were filling him, making him yearn for even the simplest things. Fights for the bathroom. Bat bogey hexes. Finding her hairties on the staircase. Letters asking if she could come stay at the shop for a day or two, just to get away from the intensity of life at the Burrow while Ron and Hermione waited for Harry to arrive.

_God damnit, why couldn't he cry?_

The door opened and Harry stepped out, closing the door gently behind him. He stood toe-to-toe with Fred and moved his glasses to wipe away a tear. He brushed at the front of his robes and headed down the stairs and into the lavatory. Fred looked around him and noticed that George had continued on without him. He was torn for a moment between his twin and his sister, but Ginny's quiet sobs beckoned him through the door and into her world.

Molly had gone overboard when she had learned she would finally be having a little girl. The walls were a lurid pink and there were numerous dolls strewn around, but a certain cluster of them caught Fred's eye. It was no secret that Molly Weasley liked to make things for her children. Each of them had numerous scarves, socks, sweaters, and sweets to prove that. When Ginny had been very little, Molly had tried her hand at doll-making. The fruits of her efforts were not exactly spectacular, but they were something to be proud of nonetheless. Dolls modeled after Ginny's immediate family were clustered together on a shelf near her bed in descending order. Dad, mum, Bill, Charlie, Percy, Fred, George, and Ron were lined along the shelf. Or, that was how they had sat for a very long time.

Fred was now clutched in his sister's grip as she laid on her side, sobbing.

Fred sniffled and sat on the edge of her bed, a thousand memories tumbling through his head. Aside from George, Ginny had been the sibling he had always felt closest to. He had been strangely happy to finally have a sister- at least, after the initial jealousy stage-, and had loved to watch over her. She was precious, he thought, and the fact that she was more like he and George than the others had made her infinitely endearing. She was mischievous like them, and she was smart. If there was one thing about death that Fred liked so far, it was that Ginny was not enduring it beside him.

He looked down at the doll clutched in her arms and sighed.

"I miss you too, Gin," he whispered, moving to brush hair out of her eyes but not succeeding. He looked away from her and caught a glimpse of a book he had not seen in years. "You still have that?"

The covers were battered beyond recognition to the untrained eye. Fred had been the previous owner of the volume, and had given it to Ginny one stormy night to comfort her. Fred had been about to go off to Hogwarts, and Ginny, who had climbed into his bed to seek shelter from the scary booms overhead, was crying because she did not want he and George to go. He had given her his favorite childhood book, which he had been planning to take to Hogwarts as a sort of security blanket, for her to clutch to and read during nights like those. He had figured that he had George as a security blanket.

"Once upon a time," he whispered, "there was a brave young witch named Ginevra."

He knew this story by heart. Dad had read it to him what must have been hundreds of times, and Fred had read it to Ginny just as often. Like his father, Fred had substituted the hero's name for the person being read to. Ginny liked when the witch was called Ginevra, because it was like a secret—she was Ginny, but really she was Ginevra.

He looked back at his sister. "She was brave because she had faced many sorrows in her days, even though she was very young. She had… she had lost someone she loved when she was a little girl, and it tore her to pieces inside.

"But Ginevra was so brave that Gryffindor himself would have been proud. She climbed the highest trees without magic… she… she went into the Chamber of Secrets and returned to her family. She watched the one she loved fight for all that was good and pure, knowing that she could not do more than watch. She had grown up with six older brothers, and perhaps that was why she was so brave.

"Because she had to protect them."

Fred reached toward Ginny once more, transparent hand shaking as he watched her shiver. He wished he could let her know that he was there, that she needn't be sad for him. He wanted to tell her he loved her and that he would always be there when she needed him, even if she couldn't see him. She coughed lightly and dabbed at her eyes with her pillow case.

Ginny shifted and moved to sit on the edge of her bed. The doll version of Fred was still clutched in her arms and she looked down at it, tears drifting down her cheeks. "I can't get through without you," she whispered, and tucked the doll inside of her cloak.

She wiped at her eyes again and got to her feet. Silently, Ginny walked across the room and left through her bedroom door.

Fred sat on her bed for a few moments after, staring around the room and realizing how wrong he had been… how selfish.

He had to let them go.

He had to say goodbye.

**

By the time Fred finally found George again, George was standing at the kitchen door, staring at the doorknob as he had before. He was working up the nerve to walk into the garden and be seen and drown in a wave of condolensces. Slowly, his fingers twitched.

James was sitting at the kitchen table, watching the scene unfold with a grim look in his eyes. He made no move to join the Weasley boys, nor did he offer any words of encouragement or disapproval to Fred. This was, he thought, the pinnacle of "family time", and it was best that he left them to it, so long as Fred didn't get too out of control or go over his time limit.

"Go on," Fred whispered to George, trying to coax his twin out of the kitchen. "You can do it, mate."

A snapping realization popped into Fred's mind. He knew what Bernard had meant when Fred had begged him to allow Fred to stay. He had said that George had been left behind to make sure those who remained were not rent apart by their grief- it would take time, but George would learn to laugh again. That meant… that somehow Fred had to say his goodbyes… and get George to find his way back.

Opening this door was the first step.

Fred whirled to look at James for a second, tears that refused to fall glistening in his eyes. "That's what I'm here for," he said quietly. "Even if I did want to go to Heaven… I couldn't. This is my unfinished business. I have to let them go… and I have to bring George home."

James nodded silently, the tiniest of approving smiles gracing his lips. The smile vanished as soon as Harry walked past the kitchen door, on his way up the stairs to check on Ginny again. Fred could see the desire in James' eyes to follow his son, to get a glimpse of what he himself had lost all those years ago. Yes, James had been lucky enough to converse with his son twice after James' death, but it was not the same to tell someone how brave they were as it was to simply watch them live. Fred felt a weight of sorrow fall into his stomach as he watched James' internal struggle- follow his son, or stay and perform the duty he had promised Bernard.

"Go," Fred commanded gently. "Go find Harry. I get it. It's like if I were in your shoes and I couldn't go see George. I promise to behave."

For once, Fred meant it.

"Just a few moments," James said, smiling like a madman, and then vanished up the stairs after his son.

George had stood silent and still throughout the conversation. Fred looked back at him, felt his nonexistent stomach drop to his feet as he watched his twin shake. George repeatedly reached for the doorknob and retracted, then seemed to decide what he really needed was a drink of tea first. Fred watched as George opened the cupboard to the left of the sink and pulled out a chipped mug that was one of dad's favorites. George seemed to either forget he was a wizard or had decided to forego using magic at that moment, as he manually lit the stove and set the tea kettle on top of the flame. He blew out the match and watched the smoke swirl in the air for a moment before tossing it in the bin.

George sighed and leaned against the sink, eyeing the chairs at the kitchen table. Fred could all but hear his twin's thoughts as George stared at one chair in particular- a chair, Fred noticed, that hadn't moved at all since the last time he and George had been over for dinner. It was just a little too far away from the table to be called "pushed in", as if Fred had just ran upstairs to grab something before breakfast. George seemed to think looking at the chair was too much to take, and as a single tear ran down his cheek, he turned away to look out the window and into the garden.

Fred stepped up next to George and looked out the window with him. The people in the garden were milling around still, expressing their grief to any Weasley they could find. Fred spied Ginny and Harry now occupying the bench in the garden that Angelina had been sitting on earlier. Angelina, he saw, was weeping heavily and threw her arms around Mrs. Weasley. Various professors and ex-students clustered together, speaking in hushed tones of sorrow. Hermione was leading Ron away from a knot of redheaded cousins, tugging his hand gently.

Fred was compelled to go and listen to the two talk, but knew it was best to stay with George. However, it was then that he discovered something rather incredible about being an angel- simply looking at two people as they spoke was like having a pair of extendable ears. He could hear everything Hermione and Ron were saying, just from watching their lips, as if he were standing right next to them.

"Are you doing alright, Ron? You've barely said a word," Hermione said gently, rubbing her new boyfriend's shoulder.

"I know," Ron snapped a little more harshly than he intended. "I'm sorry. I just… it's so s-s-strange…" He paused and tried to steady himself as his voice cracked. "It's strange, not having him here. He's just always… always been here. He always made funerals seem… like… they were more like parties than…" He stopped again, trying to steel himself, but unable to accomplish it.

"Oh," Hermione whispered, trying to keep her own tears at a distance, and she pulled Ron into a gentle embrace. "Shh… I know, I know. He was always… so high-spirited. But think of it, Ron… would he want us to be crying? Wouldn't he want us to be telling good stories about him and laughing?"

Ron pulled back from her slightly and bent so that their foreheads touched. "I know. That is what he'd want," he said with a sniffle, "but I don't think I can do that until, you know… George…"

Hermione nodded, tears dripped down her cheeks silently. "I understand that. But, sweetheart," she stalled for a second, still fumbling with the newfound ability to call Ron such things without anyone but herself or Ron thinking twice, "if you need to talk, you can. You can cry or talk, or do whatever you need, alright? I am always here for you."

A small grin broke over Ron's features. "I know," he said quietly, "and I'm lucky for it." He swooped in and gave her a kiss on the cheek before straightening up. "I don't think I could even get out of bed today if you weren't here."

She smiled sweetly at him for a moment and then squeezed his hand. "Do you feel up to going back, or do you want to sit for a moment? I don't think the services start for a little while. George still hasn't come out of the house," she said, looking briefly toward the kitchen window.

"Should I go…?" Ron began, but Hermione silenced him with a saddened look.

"I don't think there's anything you could say, Ron. He's got to come out on his own. He will… but in his own time."

"Alright," Ron said, nodding, as he too glanced at George in the window. "Then let's sit a moment."

Fred turned his attention back to George, who only moved now because the kettle was whistling. George poured himself a mug of scalding hot tea and stared at it for a second before throwing the whole thing back. Fred waited for the "Oh, shit!" that always fell out of George's mouth after he burnt his tongue, but the swear never came. Instead, George washed out the mug and did something he and Fred had not done since they were sixteen.

George peered around the kitchen, even went and looked in the living room, and saw there was nobody around. Harry and Ginny, Fred knew, were now in the garden with everyone else, as he could almost sense their… auras, or something… as they had dashed out the front door and taken the long way around in order to not disturb George. George had also known as much, since he'd heard Harry step on the squeaky floorboard all the Weasley children knew to step over when doing their sneaking. Confirming that he was indeed alone, George pulled Arthur's chair away from the table and slid it over by the kitchen sink. He climbed atop it and put his hand into the dark between the tops of the cabinets and the ceiling.

He pulled it back with a bottle of Firewhiskey in tow. He sighed, his shoulders sagging slightly. Had it been any other situation, Fred would have chuckled and told George to get two glasses. As it was, he did not.

"Don't think less of me. Just need it to get through the… the next bit. Cheers, mate," George said, looking to the ceiling and tipping the bottle as if to clink it against another imaginary one. He opened the bottle and took three large gulps before screwing the lid back on and replacing the bottle that their dad had always thought the kids had never found.

George replaced the chair and breathed in deeply. Again, he flexed his fingers at the sight of the doorknob, and he stopped short of opening it.

What had Bernard said? It was Fred's will and desire that allowed him to touch George back in the Great Hall. Fred threw himself into concentration, thinking that if George needed encouragement at any time in their lives, it was now.

This was it. The first step in saying goodbye.

The thought wrapped itself around Fred's neck and squeezed. He hated this. Loathed this. He wanted to breathe, to run, to pull George behind him as they ran out to the lake near the house- where they had always went when the pressure mum laid on them to be more like their older brothers got to be too much. He wanted to feel his heart beating and his lungs working for air. He wanted, more than anything in the world, to throw his arms around his family and friends, to tell them this was some sort of awfully misguided joke, and to cry warm salty tears of happiness, even as his mother swatted him with a spatula until he bruised.

But he couldn't.

As he stood there, staring at George, Fred knew what he had to do.

There was no way he would enter Heaven without his twin. He would sit in front of those pearly gates forever if he had to. But in the moments he had shared with others in the family that day- , mum, Ginny, Ron… it became quite clear to him that all anyone really needed during their grief was somebody to lean on. George had nobody- at least, not like everyone else had. Every other Weasley had a lover, a wife, a husband… hell, even Percy had a girl out there leaning on his shoulder.

Every other Weasley wasn't going to be stared at like George would be. Every other Weasley didn't feel like their soul had been ripped right out of their body.

George was the loneliest in a sea of sorrow. He would drown unless there was somebody there for him.

And so, with a heavy feeling in his heart, Fred reached forward, knowing it was he alone who could get George to open the door and start down a long, dreary road, where, perhaps, there would one day be an opening into sunshine again. He laid his hand, which felt so cumbersome all of a sudden, on George's shoulder, and gave him a reassuring squeeze.

"You can do this," Fred whispered, his breath rippling in the curtains of the kitchen as a soft breeze. "Go on, George. I'm here."

Whether it was the Firewhiskey, a desire to believe that he had indeed heard his brother's voice, or his own volition, George eyed the curtains briefly, shook his head as if he were trying to get rid of an annoying fly, and opened the door into the yard.


End file.
